Once upon a time, when I was in MFA school, a writer/professor got hammered at this party, and kept repeating over and over about how he couldn’t take any more essays from his female students about “the anorexia.”
As I read The Running Body, all I could think was, “But I had to read all these novels about a middle-aged man who seeks spiritual renewal through his teenage neighbor’s boobs.”
Because to be woman is to internalize all that projection and desire and loathing and admiration and resentment placed on your body before you’ve even had the chance to fully develop.
Pifer’s unraveling of what happens when this pressure combines with the desire to compete is smart and beautiful. I hate to run, but Pifer makes me understand what she wanted from the action; what it means to obsess, what it means to deliberately warp your own mind, even as you are aware that you are doing it. The expected sacrifice. The discarding.
I’m 54 but I was, once, The Swimming Body (although I also hate to lap swim, ha). I would have cantaloupe and Tab for dinner. Then I'd wake up in the middle of the night, skulk to the basement freezer, and spoon an entire Texas Gallon of ice cream straight from the tub. Pifer's memoir helped me make peace with that young body, or at least, help it feel less alone.
My friend and former Ultimate Frisbee teammate died of cancer a year ago this week. She was the one who flew up the hills, pushed us through grueling plyometrics, laughed at kettlebells. At 56 she was strong and muscular and smooth as ever on her deathbed, barely able to speak as I rubbed lotion on her dry feet. I'm finally learning what bodies are really for.
I taught Emily Pifer’s at Ohio University during the time she captures in this memoir. She wasn't writing about “the anorexia” then but after reading her debut memoir years later, I’m glad she did.